Sometimes I feel like I could just cry. But I know the rivers and the streams I’ll create will harbor no shade or relief from the pain, only remorse for things I claimed to have dropped along the way.
I try to swim out of the river and reach the top of the mountain, but to many times high mountain cliffs are illusions and are in fact only small mud hills I have falsely climbed.
This is just me.
Translating my pain into words which I turn around and inject right into my soul for instant relief. I am the carousel in my own life that keeps on spinning yet I am never able to get off the ride.
My words are indeed a terrible thing to waste, but becoming my addiction was never a good thing either.